The first day of my visit to Morogoro was Palm Sunday. Victoria goes to church far away and very early, so the girls (Maria and Neema) and I walked to the church near their home. We arrived in time to join in the procession going into the church, singing, waving large palm fronds, and ululating (this is an expression of great joy made by whooping and moving the tongue back and forth rapidly. I have tried, but I do not think I will ever be able to do it).
After church, Victoria took us to visit her younger sister (Gudi and Jasmine's mother) in a neighboring village (very rural). We had a pleasant visit and each drank a soda. Then Mama Gudi came out of her room and handed me a couple of kitange (colorful pieces of cloth that African women wrap around their clothes, drape over their shoulders, or use as head wraps). Victoria said we were going to visit neighbors whose mother had just died. Remember she does not speak English and I don't always understand everything that is said in Kiswahili. I wrapped one kitange around my skirt and draped the other over my shoulder. They did not match, but that does not matter. They were very colorfu,l and that is what catches my eye. Before we left, Victoria told me to leave my bag at the house but bring my phone and 500 shilingi. The children stayed at the house and Victoria, her sister and I set out for the neighbor's home.
When we arrived, there were already many people there. Some women were cooking big pots of food over the fire. Most, however, were sitting on old grain bags in the courtyard near the pig pen. We went over and sat with them. Just sat, for quite awhile. Finally, Victoria's sister said it was time. Time for what, I was not quite sure, but I followed them into the house. We entered a room divided by a curtain. People were lined up and circling around the back and exiting again from the door. I had an inkling that this was maybe not just saying "pole sana" to the family, but I followed. There was the mama resting in her bed. I do not especially like viewings and I felt like an intruder, so I hurried through as quickly as I could. I took my seat again in the courtyard.
After awhile, someone in the house began to wail: deep, grief stricken sobs. It was the daughter. She came out supported by two other people. I had been feeling kind of disconnected because I did not know the family, but now I could not help but feel that woman's pain. I had to wipe my eyes with my kanga and I noticed that many other women were doing the same. Death in Africa is all too common, and I realized that probably every one of these women was remembering their own loss, a parent, a husband, a sibling, a child, a friend.
Soon a tray was passed around and we each added our coins to a collection for the family. Then plates of food were served. I shared a plate of ugali, beans, and greens with Victoria's sister. We ate with our hands. I ate enough to be polite but I really wasn't very hungry. While we were eating, a man came stumbling into the courtyard saying something in rapid Kiswahilil. He fixed his eyes on me (I am easy to pick out in a crowd in Tanzania) then he came over and put two coins in my hand. He said something else and left. Now I could see some of the women smiling and looking at me. A moment of comic relief? The man had given me 150 shilingi (about 15 cents). I am not really sure why. I think I was supposed to use the money to do good work. Victoria's sister said it was a Tanzanian tradition. Anyway, I added the money to the family's plate.
The clouds had been moving in all afternoon. It began to rain, then pour. We all moved into some empty rooms in the house and continued to wait. A truck drove up, and some men unloaded an unfinished casket and carried it through the house. After awhile, it was carried back out and returned to the truck. Many people were standing underneath a tarp and someone was speaking. Family members were sobbing and some nuns tended to them. Finally the truck drove off with the casket and with a load of mourners. Victoria, Mama Gudi, and I were going to walk to the church, but it was quite a distance and it was still pouring. Instead, we returned to Mama Gudi's home. Bibi (Victoria's mother) soon joined us. The girls had prepared lunch and we had another meal.
It was a palm Sunday I will always remember.
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